


Four Seasons

by Aruthla



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 4+1, Irmo don't want to be in the background, M/M, The seven sons of Fëanor - Freeform, and lots of elves, in the background - Freeform, is not, surprise !, was suppose to be short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aruthla/pseuds/Aruthla
Summary: Four moments in the relationship between Mandos and Fëanor, plus one.





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



> Well, here is the first part of my gift for feanope on Tumblr.  
> Hope you will like it ;)
> 
> Also, sorry for the mistakes, English isn't my native language.

The sound of a zither echoed in the hall. Quickly, the sound of an aulos was added, while the one of a harp mingled with the melody, accompanied by the beat of a drum. At the rhythm of the music, dancers circled and exchanged partners under the shining golden chandeliers. Jewelry set with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds and so many other stones reflected the flames of the candles, creating a sea of bright stars appearing and disappearing beneath the colorful waves of the fabrics. For those who sat, it was a spectacle of rare beauty, reminiscent of the rain of the stars - the night when some stars were falling from the sky and descended on Arda in a frantic waltz. When the dance ended, loud applause rang out in the hall, then stopped when another music started. If some were tired because of their previous performance, some, on the contrary, discovered an inexhaustible energy and rushed to the dance floor, leaving their places to those who leave. Soon, whispers mingled with the music, comparing the two performances.

Despite the festive atmosphere, two people remained insensitive, staying away from all. Seated near the king's table, Fëanor and Nerdanel are like two statues of ice, stubbornly remaining in their places. But maybe that will change, thought those who watched since the end of the meal the couple as a man approached Nerdanel. A polite refusal and the man leaves as calmly as he came, even if the disappointment can be read on his face.

"You could have accepted."

"And leave you alone in front of this cowards who are ignorant of the past and who ask for justice that has already been done? Certainly not," Nerdanel replied, glaring at a group of young people who run away quickly at the force of her gaze.

Fëanor gave a pale smile at that and dropped the subject, knowing that he couldn’t change her mind for the moment. Slowly, he scanned the room, looking for his sons to make sure they had a good time. Unsurprisingly, he found Nelyo busy talking to Fingon, who were completely oblivious of the trio sitting at their table and who seemed more and more uncomfortable between the two elves who were devouring each other's eyes. Further on, Finrod, Moryo, and Orodreth were also discussing, though Fëanor found the little distance between Finrod and Moryo strange. Deciding that they were old enough to know what they wanted, Fëanor looked away from Finrod and Moryo. He found the Ambarussa teased Angrod, who had a slight smile on his face - something that had become rare since he returned carrying with him the news of his brother Aegnor's departure beyond the confines of the world. Turning his head to the table where Arafinwë sat, he found his brother watching the scene with a smile brighter than the sun. The latter turned to Fëanor and gave him a smile full of gratitude, before turning to Curufin and Celebrimbor who were next to him, probably discussing an order for a new jewelry set. Referring his gaze to the dancing crowd, Feanor found Kana alongside Elrond. Both had the same serene smile, causing many people to doubt the filiation of the half-elf, for the amusement of his second son. Finally, he found Tyelko chatting with Oropher. Fëanor smiled tenderly as his son chatted animatedly with the silver-haired elf, who was calmly answering Tyelko's exclamations. Realizing that all his sons were having fun, he decided to get up, inviting Nerdanel to do the same. Both headed for the dance floor and began to dance.

Quickly, the moment to change partners arrived and Fëanor sent Nerdanel to the elf who had asked for a dance shortly before, before disappearing into the crowd. Sneaking between the elves, he headed for the exit concealed behind heavy scarlet hangings.

A shiver ran through him when he was outside, but he paid little attention, preferring to admire the Royal Gardens under the snow. The floor was a white carpet, shining delicately under the pale rays of the moon. The shrubs along the paths were like cotton balls, while the trees were crumbling under the snow. Stalactites hung from the branches, creating a path of light in the twilight of the night. Slowly Fëanor stepped on the central alley, heading for the central grove. Passing the bridge that stepping over the pond separating the grove from the rest of the park, he disappeared into the forest. Without following any particular direction, he wandered between the trees, admiring the arabesques of frost on the trunks. He ended up arriving at a gazebo that few people knew existed. The latter overlooked the water, which in summer was covered with lotus flowers while dragonflies played on the water during the day, and the night replaced by fireflies . But with the winter, the gazebo was reflected in a huge mirror of ice looking like set by tiny diamonds. Approaching the stone building, Fëanor was surprised to see a person sitting at the table under the glass dome. Climbing the three steps to the stone pontoon, he continued to approach the gazebo, trying to see who else wasn’t at the party. The person, fully dressed in black, stood with his back, revealing only his long silvery white hair, reminiscent of the moon shining high in the sky, partly held in a braid. Digging in his memory, Fëanor couldn’t remember an elf with that hair color.

"Good evening Prince Fëanor."

Lost in thought, Fëanor had not realized that the stranger had turn around, revealing a face as white as marble. However, what caught Fëanor's attention was the strip of black cloth crossed over the man's eyes. He only knew one person wearing this and it was ...

"Lord Mandos," he said in a greating, surprised to see the guardian of the dead so far from his Halls.

Without a word, the Vala turned around, turning his back to Fëanor again. For a moment, he hesitated between leaving the guardian of the dead alone and returning to the ball, or staying with him - not quite sure why he was here. Eventually, his curiosity finally prevailed and he sat down to face Lord Mandos. The latter seemed surprised - though it was difficult to say, his eyes were hidden - but said nothing, grabbing a small ceramic bottle and pouring the contents into a small cup that he handed to Fëanor. Delicately, the elf grabbed the cup and took a sip. What was his surprise to find that it was alcohol, which was hot.

"It's hot sake," Mandos explained, feeling Fëanor's questioning look. "These are Avari who created this drink, cold originally, before making a variant for colder weather," he finished while serving himself.

For a while, the two men drank in silence, although Fëanor was burning to question the presence of the Vala here. However, the memory of Morgoth's manipulations came back to him, giving him the impression of having received a bucket of ice water.

Like many elves of his generation, Fëanor knew nothing of the life of his parents and ancestors before they arrived in Valinor. Of course, they knew that he had no light at that time, except those of the stars, and that many danger lapped in the shadows, waiting only for the right moment to take the poor unfortunate to an unknown destiny others. They also knew that there had been a war between a Vala and the other Valar, but they never knew the name of the enemy. What a mistake it was. If they had known, maybe things would have been different. In any case, Fëanor was convinced that for him it would have changed a lot of things. Unfortunately, no one could change the past, only learn to live with his mistakes and make sure that others don’t reproduce them - which Fëanor had done as soon as he had left the Halls of Mandos.

He immediately began writing a chronicle about all the events that had occurred after the Noldor's departure to Middle Earth, writing tirelessly, even when elves screamed in scandal upon hearing that he had returned. Fortunately for him, Nerdanel, brave Nerdanel who deserved so much better than to remain chained to him when there was no more love between them - a sad and terrible discussion they had when Fëanor had left the Halls , had quickly get rid of this problem. Little by little, other elves had joined him, like Finrod, then later Turgon. It was a long-term job, but it was perfectly suited to Fëanor, who was still banned from the forges for the time being.

"I read the last book you wrote. It's a great job," said Mandos, bringing Fëanor back to the present moment.

"Oh ... The dwarves were extremely excited to be able to talk about their shared history with the Elves of the Second Age. Tyelpe was particularly happy to participate for this book, despite ... "

Fëanor didn’t try to finish his sentence, remembering the empty look of his grandson when he spoke of his imprisonment. But the worst was that Fëanor could have stopped him, since during his death he had witnessed all the events related to his sons and grandson, and it was only at the death of this last he had been released from the Halls. It had been a very cruel punishment, but perhaps it was the only way at that time to make him understand the full scope of his actions, so much was he lost in his rage at his death. Maybe he could have an answer? But how to approach the subject ...

"It isn’t me who choose."

Surprised, Fëanor raised his head and observed the Vala who was in front of him. Even though he couldn’t see his eyes, he could feel his gaze staring into his eyes.

"I didn’t read your thoughts, rest reassured Prince Fëanor, this is only deduction in view of the previous subject," explained the guardian of the dead.

"Who was it?" Asked Fëanor, curiosity taking over everything.

The Vala didn’t answer, just raising his head. Imitating him, the elf also raised his head and saw only the glass dome, cut into fourteen panels representing the Valar. The centerpiece of the dome was uniquely decorated with golden arabesques and engraved with a single word.

"Ilúvatar ..."

Mandos nodded silently, leaving Fëanor time to recover from this information. The latter imagined all possible and unimaginable reasons for the fact that Ilúvatar was the one who chose his sentence. Finally, the answer seemed obvious to him and he felt ready to burst out laughing as it seemed improbable. But didn’t that make sense? After all, had not he told Eru to damne them if they failed in their quest? This explains why Nelyo and Kana had returned only a day after Elrond arrived in Valinor.

Refocusing on Mandos, he noticed the presence of a new bottle of alcohol. Raising an eyebrow, he watched the Vala taking out of nowhere two glasses.

"This is perhaps not the healthiest way to handle this kind of news, but for me, it worked well when I understood why Eru Ilúvatar had decided to take care of you, Prince Fëanor."

"" Fëanor" will suffice, after all, I feel that I will ridicule myself after drinking what is in this bottle."

"Then in this case, call me "Námo"."

_(The next day, Fëanor was woken by a nerdanel in a hesitant mood between anger and joy - the two being intimate related. Anger at having dared to leave her at the ball last night, even though she had a very enjoyable late night with her improvised cavalier, despite the slight "scandal" it created for her and Fëanor - after all, a married woman, especially to a prince, isn’t going to dance a ball with anyone other than her husband. The joy for the huge scandal they had created, or rather, the cause of this scandal, namely the suddenly dissolution of their marriage bond, which brought back anger, after all, how she was going to support him now that she no longer had the excuse of the marriage bond, stupid Fëanor!)_


	2. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter basically went to "let's make Fëanor happy" to "let's see if I can make people cry too"... I don't know what happened... Also, Irmo decided that he was going be part of the story...

Going through the opening, Fëanor avoided the sharp rocks that protruded irregular walls. As he sank into the canyon, the light became more and more rare, as the wind seemed to scream between the two stone walls. For a moment he hesitated to take out a lamp, unaware of what he would find in those places, but finally, curiosity prevailed over prudence, and he took out a lamp and lit it, before continuing on his way. From time to time, he stopped to admire the veins of minerals that formed like a network of nerve in the rock, going as far as to took out a sketchbook to draw this natural painting of nature, or at least as natural it was when there were literally entities that could change the world just by singing.

Continuing to follow the path, Fëanor arrived in front of a slope. Unable to see the end, he pushed a pebble with his foot and listened to the sound it made while rolling. After a moment, he heard the echo of the rock striking a rock. Knowing that he didn’t risk falling into a ravine at the end, he hung his lamp on his belt and slid down the slope, clinging at times to the rocks to slow his slide. Finally arriving downstairs, he took his lamp in his hand and glanced around, before gaping at the landscape facing him.

The limestone walls were not whitish like many other caves, but a variation of blue, green and purple. In the middle of columns, stalagmites emerged from the ground, seeking to join their sisters stalactites that were on the roof. Lost in the middle of this forest of peaks, gours chained one after the other, forming like a huge water staircase, while drops of water slid along the stalactites, creating an irregular and yet melodious symphony. But what held Fëanor's attention was the aven, from which fell a light haze mingled with the rays of the sun, illuminating an islet where stood proudly a tree with leaves as red as the flames themselves. A few leaves fell from time to time on the turquoise water and floated easily on the crystal-clear lake.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, admiring this enchanting picture, but he had to spend an hour there, at the end of which he again took out his notebook and began to draw in the most faithful manner what he saw. He repeated his drawing no less than three times, furiously turning the pages furiously to find a blank page on whom to draw a detail, such as the way the drops of water that fell from the ceiling and clung to the leaves of the tree, or the debris from the vault that lay at the bottom of the lake.

When he was finally satisfied with the quality of his drawing, the cave was greatly darkened. With a sigh, he got up and looked for an exit. He finally discovered a gallery in which water rose to the level of his knees. Taking a last look at the islet, Fëanor finally stepped into the gallery. As he stepped forward, Fëanor realized that the water was rising and blessed that his bag - his last gift from his mother before he left for the Halls of Mandos - was enchanted against practically everything, making him not worry that his stuff might get wet. However, as the water continued to rise, he began to wonder if it wouldn’t be wiser to turn around and retrace his steps to find another way out or return to Tirion. Fortunately for him, at the moment when this second thought began to formulate in his head, he was dazzled by a ray of sunshine coming from his right. Letting out a sigh of relief, he headed for the opening, which turned out to be big enough to let him pass. After a few contortions, he found himself in the open air, which he inhaled with happiness, while the sun warmed his limbs numbed by cold water.

Glancing around, Fëanor began to question his whereabouts, since, clearly, he was no longer in the vicinity of Yavanna's pastures. In front of him, as far as the eye could see, lycoris fields were as red as the tree in the cave, while a river snaked through the flowers, disappearing behind a forest in the distance. To complete the picture, mists of haze floated lazily here and there, bringing an ethereal touch to the landscape.

A shudder tore him from his contemplation, reminding him that he had to change if he didn’t want to be sick, something that had become commonplace for him since he came back. Quickly changing, he wrapped his things dipped in a towel, taking the bag containing his sketchbook, and put them in, keeping his boots since he had no spare. After checking that he was leaving nothing behind, he started walking towards the forest. He walked for a while, passing through the lycoris fields, admiring their beauty, and when he reached the first trees, the sun began its descent. Once again, Fëanor found herself admiring the beauty of the surrounding nature, while a light breeze waved the green leaves of the trees and spread the sweet scent of the flowers that adorned them. Continuing on his way, he finally came to a clearing, where he discovered a house whose architectural style was totally unknown to him.

Slowly approaching, he observed the house slightly elevated with wooden piles. Behind huge panels of wood and glass was a corridor that seemed to go around the house, separating the outside and inside, the latter closing with other wooden panels with a kind of paper more or less opaque in the spaces left empty between the braces. The floor inside the rooms was covered with several mattresses made of a sort of braided straw.

Curious, Fëanor approached a little more, but did not try to go beyond the pond that went around the house. After all, he did not know who lived here, and he preferred to avoid antagonizing the occupier, especially if it was an Avar, whose habits and customs were different from each other.

Still going around the house, he admired the reflection of the water on the foliage of cherry trees, plum trees, maples and ginkos along the various streams flowing into different basins. Following the stone path that passed sometimes on sand, other times between thick bush of camellias and azaleas, Fëanor reached the limit between what he supposed to be the garden of this mysterious house and the forest, if this was a limit. It was difficult to say after all, facing two stone lanterns framing a wooden bridge disappearing under weeping willows.

Hesitating between crossing the bridge, and perhaps pass on the property, and retracing his steps to find another way through the forest, Fëanor didn’t hear someone approaching him from behind.

"Well, well! What is a little elf doing so far from Tirion?" Breathed a voice, right in his ear.

Red with embarrassment and anger, Fëanor turned around, ready to make it clear to the importunate that he didn’t appreciate this kind of conduct with his person, only to find himself facing a face tanned by the sun, with a big smile on his lips and two eyes constantly changing color - besides, it wasn’t only the color that changed: the iris, if he had an iris and a pupil in his eyes, also changed shaped like a kaleidoscope - all framed by sand hair, which wasn’t just the hair color of the Vala of dreams.

Lord Lórien's smile widened at the surprise expression of his victim, while one of his hands passed around Fëanor's waist, pulling the poor elf against his chest. The latter gained a hue of red, not knowing very well what to do in this situation. He had heard rumors about the youngest of the Fëanturi, but he hadn’t expected to end up being a victim of it, after all, he had only average want to spend a whole year, maybe more, asleep in the Lórien Gardens alongside the Vala of dreams, to be used as a pillow - although rumors suggest this word seemed to have another connotation for the Vala. He probably had a funny expression in the eyes of Lord Lórien, since his smile is still growing. Bringing his face close to his, Feanor could feel his breath on his lips. Unfortunately, his hand around his waist prevented him from running away and he closed his eyes, preferring not to know what was going to happen.

A loud sound of impact was heard, followed by a yelp, while the hand of the Vala left his place on his hip. Opening her eyes, Fëanor discovered Lord Lórien on the floor, his hands clutching his face, rolling on the floor in tears, and a book lying on the floor.

"What are you doing Irmo?" Asked a calm voice behind the elf.

Turning, Fëanor discovered Lord Mandos, three books under his arm, while Lord Manwë watched with an ounce of fear the guardian of the dead, whose face didn’t express any expression.

"Are you okay Fëanor?" Námo asked, just glancing at his brother as he picked up the book from the floor.

"Uh ... yes," he replied.

Nodding his head, the black-clad Vala made his way to the house, after making a sign to Lord Manwë and Fëanor to follow him, though the Vala of the air seemed reluctant to let Lord Lórien out. For his part, Feanor felt no remorse at leaving him out, and didn’t hide his curiosity on entering the house, which he learned belonged to Námo.

Observing between the few ajar doors, Fëanor discovered empty rooms of all the furniture, if one didn’t count the multiple plants which invaded every space. Mixed with black-eyed Suzanne, wisteria ran along the beams, leaving their purple flowers hanging in the air. Pots of different sizes and shapes were everywhere, containing various plants, such as hibiscus, hyacinths, pink bonnones, vrieseas, gardenias and many others whose name he didn’t know - but that Turka or Telu would have known, recognized without worries. In the midst of this vegetation, some butterflies came and went between the flowers, entering through one of the openings with its strange partitions and emerging by another. Besides, they weren’t the only visitors. Birds came and went as they pleased, landing on the beams, building their nest. Some of them went to rest on the shoulders of Lord Manwë, who began to sing with the birds, probably exchanging a few words.

Suddenly, he stopped walking. A shadow fell on him and all the birds flew away, creating a cacophony of noise with their panicked squeaks. The mysterious shadow turned out to be a cat, a very big maine coon cat, who licked his chops while standing on the shoulders of the Vala of the air, who dared not sketch the slightest movement of fear that the cat will throwing himself on him and eat him. Faced with this spectacle, Fëanor had to make a big effort not to burst out laughing in front of the pale face of the Vala, whose feather eyelashes twitched because of the terror of the latter.

"He's not going to eat you, you know," said Námo, taking the cat, who pouted at seeing his prey move away from him.

"Are you sure?" He asked, weaving the cat warily.

"Certain," and Fëanor was certain that the guardian of the dead had rolled his eyes, "But I can not say the same thing about others." And even though the tone was as inexpressive as before, he was sure to have heard a laugh in it.

A mew sounded behind Lord Manwë and Fëanor, who turned around to find a dozen cats, all staring intently at the Vala of the air, especially his hair made of feathers of all species of birds in this world. With a squeak, the Lord of the birds fled, all the cats chasing him, trying to catch one of the many feathers that decorated his clothes.

Fëanor had a stomach ache, trying to hold back his laughter. He could feel the Vala's gaze on him and really tried to restrain himself, but by Eru, it was hard.

Finally, the duo arrived at what Fëanor thought was the living room, given the presence of many armchair, and again, the elf was absorbed by the beauty of the landscape that was outside. The room faced a lake encircled by a sea of trees with white, pink, purple flowers and many others. In the distance, the red lycoris moved with the rhythm of the wind, while the river became a thin sliver of silver as it went towards the mountain range that seemed on fire while the sun disappeared slowly from the horizon. Some late mist clouds still floated near the ground, while mountain peaks were lost in the clouds. Going down the outer corridor, Fëanor saw in the distance an immense and dark form, like a tower, and he knew what it was without ever having seen it.

"The Halls ..." Fëanor murmured.

He was torn out of his contemplation by a new squeak, while the owner of the place sighed.

"I'm giving you Cundo for a little while."

And Námo left, leaving the cat in Fëanor's arms, who felt like he was being judged by him. He did the only sensible thing about this kind of situation: caressing him. In less than two hugs, the black tortoiseshell cat began to emit the loudest purring sound he had ever heard, pushing him to continue petting him to keep hearing that sound.

Afraid of dirtying the chairs because of his traveling coat, Fëanor sat on the ground, Cundo on his lap, admiring the landscape while continuing to stroke the cat, which seemed to have reached the maximum of his sound capacity for his purring. After a moment, he felt something pulling on his sleeve that didn’t move. Turning his head, he found a small tabby cat who gave a mewing when he saw that he had his attention. With a smile, Fëanor began to stroke him, while a third cat arrived, demanding his attention. Soon enough, he found himself surrounded by a dozen cat, purring with happiness for some and claim more caresses for others, while Cundo simply remained on his knees, continuing to purr.

"I see you've found yourself a new target."

Immediately, all the cats ran to the Vala, allowing Fëanor to get up. Turning around, he noticed the absence of Lord Manwë, probably left after his misadventure, and while he was going to express his desire to leave as well, he saw Námo and -

\- burst out laughing.

In the arms of the Vala was a small ball of feather -like fur- white with blue sky reflections, a long pearly beak and two incredulous blue eyes, which quickly displayed an outraged air, redoubling Fëanor's laughter in front of the appearance from the Vala of the air, which in his panic had turned into a kiwi.

"See, you're ridiculous," Námo said from his eternal, monotonous voice, tearing away from Manwë a protest cry, as the cats meowed their approvals over their master's words ... or maybe to mock the kiwi-Vala . For his part, Fëanor was trying to catch his breath, but it was enough for him to look at the guardian of the dead, inexpressive, holding Manwë who shrieked, both encircled by a dozen cat, to be resumed a crisis of laughter. His ribs ached, as tears of laughter crept down his cheeks, which hurt him as well. But on the other hand, it had been so long since he had not laughed like that. In fact, not since ...

And suddenly, he found himself in the water, the laugher of Lord Lórien resonating behind him.

* * *

_The scarlet flames burning high in the black sky. The fire devoured the wood with violence. The sound of the boats crackling under his attack echoed in the air. The heat that emanated from the bonfire suffocated him. Or maybe it was the heat of this fire giant? He didn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know._

_In front of him, the sandy beach had lost its whiteness. On the other hand, the bodies which strewed it seemed to melt there. The swords, clanging with flames, filled the air with a fatal din. He didn’t know how long they had been fighting. He doesn’t know how long they will fight._

_Suddenly, he felt the bite of the fire on his skin. A mute cry of pain escaped him. He fell on his knees before his opponent. A laugh made him raise his head. And a howl crossed his lips from the vision that presented itself to him. He didn’t know if it was rage. He doesn’t know if it was despair._

_In front of him stood Morgoth, dressed in black armor. On his head, a crown shining three jewels. But his eyes didn’t fix them. No. What he was staring at was the necklace that adorned the neck of the Vala. An iron necklace without jewels. A necklace made of seven heads. Seven heads froze in an eternal pain, in a mute cry that twisted his ears. He didn’t know what he had done. He doesn’t know if he did anything._

_He just knew it was his fault._

* * *

With a gasp, his eyes opened suddenly. His breath was short and fast as his eyes burned. He heard a mewing, before feeling something raspy on his cheek. It was then that he noticed that he was crying. A sob escaped his lips, followed quickly by another, and yet another. Tears began to slide without him being able to hold them back. He was no longer an elfing and above all, he didn’t have that right, the right to cry. Only those who had lost something or someone dear had the right to cry. He didn’t have that right anymore. He didn’t have that right.

Continuing to fight his tears, he didn’t hear someone enter the room. He didn’t feel two hands seize him delicately, the blanket around him preventing him from feeling the cold skin against which he leaned. Tears clouded his vision, not allowing him to see that he had buried his face in a dark blue cloth, much softer than his white pillow.

"You have the right to cry, more than anyone," whispered a warm voice.

He wanted to protest, to say that it was false, that he didn’t have the right, but he was afraid of losing in the face of his pain that he refused if he opened his mouth.

"You have the right."

He shook his head furiously, refusing to recognize the words of his voice. He didn’t have the right. He had lost nothing, only taken.

"What did you take?"

Everything. The life of his mother, his father, his people. Even those of his children, his wonderful children. He wasn’t allowed to cry. He was no better than Morgoth. The voice didn’t answer and he knew he was right.

Yet ... yet, a treacherous little voice in his mind kept supplicating the voice of him proving he was wrong.

"When your mother died, her first words were, "I'm a monster." Do you know why?" In front of the elf's silence, the voice answered, "Because she abandoned you. "

Under the shock, Fëanor raised his head.

"After you were born, she should have recovered like anyone else, but when your father expressed the wish to have more children, she became frightened. Míriel loved you with all her being. However, the simple idea of having to bring a child back with the same force terrified her to the highest degree. As a result, instead of recovering health, she became terribly ill. Seeing you helped her recover, but your father's vision was enough to destroy the little health she was recovering. Faced with his distress, Irmo offered to put her to sleep so that she could really heal. Except that the link between his hroa and his fëa was too weak and he broke. It wasn’t her fault, however, she kept blaming herself. "

Fëanor remained silent in the face of this revelations, much too shocked by the words of the voice.

"As for your father, he blamed himself every day, cursing his insistence instead of prioritizing the health of his wife. When he remarried with Indis, he did it for you so that you could grow up with a mother whom he had taken away from you. He wanted to offer you the family he had denied you by his actions and allow Míriel to live freely. "

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about it. Fëanor had never known that his father had blamed himself for his mother's death, nor the reasons for his second marriage. If he had known all that, maybe ... maybe none of that would have happened ...

"All of this would have happened one way or another."

In spite of himself, Fëanor tensed when he hear the finality in the tone of the voice.

"If you hadn’t been _his_ target, _he_ would have chosen someone else. Your father, one of your siblings, or even one of your children. Anyone would have done it for _him_ as long as _he_ could get what _he_ wanted. _He_ has always been like that, and _he_ will be forever. "

Fëanor was shocked. He had never imagined hearing so much hate in his voice that had always been calm.

" _He_ has always been good at manipulating people, creating a niche in their minds where _his_ softly wrapped words hide and let their poisons gently corrode the spirits. Despite ourselves, we become _his_ puppets, dancing to _his_ music. And when _he_ finally got what _he_ wanted, _he_ abandons us, leaving us with a dagger in our back and madness and excessive hat-" Surprised, the voice stopped.

Fëanor had felt that the voice was lost in her memories, memories too painful for her. His tears had begun to slide down his cheeks, but this time they weren’t for him. Slowly, he had freed himself from the arms that held him and had placed his around the neck, attracting the one who had held him to him. That's when he saw who was with him, but that wasn’t important. Námo was in pain and he wanted this sorrow to go away. Delicately, Fëanor stroked the hair of the Vala who had nested his head in his neck. He felt his breathing calm down, becoming little by little master of himself again.

" _He_ takes without ever giving ... but you ... you, you always give without ever receiving anything. So don’t think you're worth less than _him_ , you're worth so much more than _Morgoth_ will ever be worth." Námo breathed, cold fingers catching the tears that escaped Fëanor's eyes. "So, yes. You have the right to cry. And if you don’t want the world to see you crying, I'll hide you from them. "

And for the first time since he'd come out of the Halls, Fëanor cried.

* * *

"This is the first time his dreams are so peaceful."

Námo just nodded.

"Did he see?"

"I don’t think that's the kind of thing you pay attention to in this kind of situation, Irmo."

"Not wrong," the Vala of dreams replied with a discreet chuckle, so as not to wake the sleepy elf on his brother.

_(When he woke up, Fëanor stared for a moment at the dark blue fabric under his eyes, still lost in the limbo of sleep, he decided to go back to bed, the call of the pillow being stronger than anything, only to wake up suddenly when he felt his pillow vibrate with a laugh. Lifting his head, he crossed two veiled white eyes, a gleam of amusement shining in. Suddenly, the events of the previous day came back to him. He felt his face catch fire and reflexively, he grabbed the first object that came to hand - fortunately a cousin - and threw it in the face of Námo, before fleeing the room. For all the rest of the day, he refused to meet Námo's gaze.)_


End file.
